


A Fleeting Connection

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Comfort/Angst, Crisis of Faith, Crossover, Developing Relationship, Inspired by Music, Lyrium, M/M, Mage!Sherlock, Sherlock's Violin, Suggestive Themes, Templar!John, Touching, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Mage!lock and Templar!son touched, and one time they didn't.  Inspired by the Daft Punk song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Gkhol2Q1og">“Touch”</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fleeting Connection

**Author's Note:**

> _Originally, John and Sherlock's first contact was going to be covered in a sentence from “A Fragment of Time”, but I felt it deserved a little more. I've wanted to write something for Daft Punk's song “Touch” ever since I first heard it – every time I listen to it, I swear I hear a new story waiting to be told – so what better opportunity?_   
>  _I would like to reassure you all that this is NOT a songfic, at least not in the sense you might traditionally think of one – not that I have a problem with those kinds of fics or people who enjoy them, but I know some people aren't fans of them. I don't think you need to have the song playing or anything to get the full effect (though I had it on loop for most of writing this – and now I might actually be a little sick of it :P), but I do recommend checking it out on its own merits, especially if you like house music._   
>  _For Stef, naturally, for being the red oni to my blue, and the Kirk to my Spock. (I would say “the Watson to my Holmes”, but...no. We're both Watsons. ^_~)_
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _All I own of the things you see here are a copy of the game, a copy of the album, and a copy of_ The Sherlock Files. _(See a pattern?)_

_**1\. Touch, I remember touch** _

_**I need something more** _

_**I remember touch** _

_**I need something more** _

_**In my mind** _

The first time was an accident.

Perhaps “accident” is a misnomer, as that word implies the occurrence could not have been prevented, but whether or not that was the case, the moment certainly wasn't intended.

As with all accidents, a number of smaller events led up to its culmination. It had been unseasonably warm for a few weeks, and the rising heat had been trapped with increasing intensity on each floor of the tower. Sherlock had removed his gloves to see if they'd been torn on a stray nail under the table. John hadn't been wearing his, as he never did at their midnight meetings. Sherlock had also taken off his Ring of Study since, as he said, his finger had swollen slightly in the warmer weather and made the ring just a bit too tight. The gloves forgotten on the table (they weren't torn), Sherlock had been playing with his ring throughout their continuing conversation and the subsequent lull. John had been content to simply sit and watch his hands, so long, graceful, and pale, and always needing to be occupied.

Inevitably, the ring dropped from Sherlock's hands and landed on the stone floor, bouncing once towards John.

“Oh, I'll get that –” John said, leaning down.

“No, I can –” Sherlock began.

They started and stopped speaking at the same moment. For as they'd both reached for the ring, their bare hands had touched.

The temperature of the already warm room seemed to spike.

John swallowed, just as he heard a slight hitch in Sherlock's breath.

Sherlock's hand, resting on top of his, was warm and smooth, like sun-warmed marble. John knew his was rough and callused from years of training and swordwork, but he didn't care.

How long had it been since he had held another person's hand? Not even romantically, just as a gesture of affection or comfort? He tried to remember; he wanted to remember the gentle thrum of blood coursing beneath the skin, the feel of hair as fine and soft as cotton thread.

John wasn't sure how much time passed before Sherlock cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

He was overcome with a sudden, mad desire to take Sherlock's hand and slip the ring back on, but his better instincts prevailed. Instead, his hand closed over the ring and dropped it into Sherlock's waiting palm.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said politely as he replaced his ring.

“You're welcome.”

The now awkward silence continued with only occasional respite until John excused himself for bed, rather earlier than usual, and Sherlock didn't seem more pleased or disappointed than usual to see him go.

John was nearly asleep before he realized Sherlock had never put his gloves back on.

 

_**2\. Touch, I remember touch** _

_**Pictures came with touch** _

_**A painter in my mind** _

_**Tell me what you see** _

_**A tourist in a dream** _

_**A visitor it seems** _

_**A half-forgotten song** _

_**Where do I belong?** _

_**Tell me what you see** _

_**I need something more** _

“Hello, Sherlock – what do you have there?”

Sherlock looked up from the wooden object in his hands, his fingers lightly grasping and turning several pegs around its top with small, practiced motions. “Hello, John. This is one of the few possessions I was allowed to take with me to the Tower.”

John came closer. Now he could see Sherlock was holding a wooden instrument, with five strings and a long neck, atop which sat a leaf-shaped peg box. It was finely, expensively crafted, gleaming even in the low light. An elaborate bow rested on the table beside him. “Is that a _vielle_?”

“Indeed. Courtesy of the Orlesians. Pure sylvanwood.”

“When did you start playing?” John sat down and reached for his tea, interest piqued.

“Six years of age, nearly a year to the day before my powers manifested. On my birthday, Mummy showed me a range of musical instruments and told me to pick one. That and a year's worth of lessons were her gift. Even after my departure, she commissioned other _vielles_ to accommodate me as I grew, up until her death. This is the last of them.”

John nodded; he wouldn't have expected any less from a Holmes. Playing instruments and other hobbies were not strictly forbidden – such activities kept the mages' minds and wills in check, and were hardly likely to foster possession – but the templars still frowned on them. John understood that, unlike in his other areas of expertise, Sherlock preferred to play without an audience.

Sherlock finished tuning the instrument and reached for his bow. “I have not practiced in several days, and I prefer not to wait more than six between practices if possible.”

Though Sherlock hadn't asked directly if he minded, John heard the slight question in his tone and replied, “Sure, go ahead.”

The mage didn't seem to hear him. He tucked the _vielle_ under his chin, set his bow, and began to play. John stared, fascinated, as Sherlock drew the bow across the strings in long, sweeping motions, with the grace of a bird spreading its wings, or a lady unfurling a fan. His other hand cradled the instrument's neck, fingertips dancing like raindrops across the top as the notes seemed to float through the air and the quiet of the night.

John knew little of music apart from Chantry hymns and songs, but it mattered not. He didn't hear just music coming from Sherlock's skilled hands. He heard his mother's voice, reading bedtime stories; his father's hearty laugh, warm and rich as soup; Harry's vigorous plucking of a lyre and her warbling attempts at singing the songs their mother loved; the chirping of new spring birds; the crackling of a cozy fire; the splash and froth of hot chocolate being poured into a mug; the raucous chatter and laughter of the Gnawed Noble's other patrons as he and Lestrade sipped their drinks; the soothing, aged voice of the Revered Mother conducting Harry's wedding ceremony.

Then the tempo and tone changed, and so did John's visions. The rare occasions his parents had argued; the more frequent instances with Harry, especially after her drinking had worsened. The dreaded clink of one flask against another in the next room, meaning Harry had just likely doubled her intoxication for the night. Reading his last letter from Harry, informing him of her separation. The cold, passive weight of the gold Andrastian pendant she'd enclosed, once a gift from her now-former wife, and still bearing her name. The sound of the first mage he'd ever smited collapsing to the ground, limp and faint. The cold, hard clang of the isolation cell door slamming home.

To his relief, Sherlock's piece soon returned to a cheerier mood. More notes drifted from the strings as warmly and softly as a summer breeze, carrying his mind with them. Lestrade's laughter growing ever raucous and jovial with one tankard too many. The awkward tenderness of his first kiss. The looks of sheer pride and delight on his parents' faces when he told them he was enlisting with the Templar Order. Speaking his vows before the Knight-Commander and the Maker, meaning each one with the solemnity of his entire being. Hearing the words, “Rise, Ser John Watson.”

The feeling of having a place to return at the end of the day, to walk into the arms of the people who loved you most, and who you loved, too.

The day he'd met this man, and knew he'd never be the same again.

All too soon, the piece came to its end, and Sherlock set down his bow, withdrew the instrument, and laid it as gently on the table as if it were made of glass.

It was a few moments before John could speak. “That was beautiful.”

Sherlock acknowledged the compliment with a mere tilt of his head. “Of course it was. I play wonderfully.” John could almost hear the pride dripping from his voice.

“And you only had a year's worth of lessons,” he marveled.

Sherlock scoffed. “Experience is the more valuable teacher, especially compared to the ones Mummy brought in.” His expression softened somewhat. “Is there anything you would like to hear?”

“Me?” John was surprised. “I'm afraid I can't think of anything. Do you have a favorite?”

“I have a recent acquisition from this very library, a composition from the saga _Dane and the Werewolf_ , dating back to 4:85 Black.”

“Then that's what I want to hear.”

“Very well. But first –” Sherlock abruptly stopped talking, then turned on his heel and dashed towards a distant shelf. John, startled at first, quickly followed –

– and promptly crashed into a tall, soft barrier.

“John?” Sherlock did not turn around, his voice having dropped to a whisper.

“Yes. Sorry about that. Didn't know you'd stopped.” Sherlock's black robes made him nearly invisible in the dimmer areas of the library, little more than a swift shadow in the corner of one's eye.

“It's of no concern. Did you hear anything just now?”

“No, nothing.” Nothing but the marvelous music he wanted to store away forever, envying Sherlock's capacity for retention, knowing he could hear a piece once and always remember it unless he chose to forget.

He'd been awfully fast to follow Sherlock, John thought, without any real reason, so fast he hadn't realized Sherlock was no longer running.

“It seems we are still alone,” Sherlock whispered, after waiting a few moments longer.

“Yes,” John answered. “Yes, we are.” It was just the two of them right now, side-by-side in near-darkness, robes against clothes, with Sherlock in the lead and John right behind him.

And that, he realized, was exactly where he wanted to be.

 

_**3\. Kiss, suddenly alive** _

_**Happiness arrive** _

_**Hunger like a storm** _

_**How do I begin?** _

“Good evening, John.”

“Good evening, Sherlock – _oww._ ” John grimaced as pain shot through his nerves. He gritted his teeth, trying to reassure himself of how minor this was compared to some previous injuries, but the thought brought little comfort. A poultice had cooled the burn and reduced the pain, but the skin on his right forearm was far from healed. He gave quick thanks to the Maker that his hand had not been hurt.

Sherlock looked up from his book, then rose from his seat and approached John, pale blue eyes showing – concern? “John, you're hurt.”

“Great deduction, I hadn't noticed,” John said dryly. “I had to break up three apprentices having a bit too much fun with fireballs. I had my gloves off because I'd been polishing them, and...well, you see.”

“They were arguing about whose were bigger.” Sherlock appeared mesmerized by the swollen, blistered skin.

“How did you know?”

“It seems a requirement of mage apprenticeship is to have that argument at least once with at least one friend. Likely a soon-to-be former friend.”

John chuckled, momentarily forgetting his pain, then wincing as it jolted up his arm. “Yes, well, there's no argument as to who had the worst aim.”

“Why didn't you see a healer?”

“All the healers are asleep, and it's not that bad. Not half as painful as the punishment those apprentices will get for injuring a templar.” There was no malice in John's voice, only regret. “I already put a poultice on it. I'll see one of them first thing tomorrow –”

“No, let me.” And before John could respond, his arm was in Sherlock's hand. Startled by the unexpected contact, he stared as Sherlock's fingers began to glow and the familiar pull of magic resonated in his blood.

First, there was careful application of cooling energy – not cold, but cool enough to further ease the pain and lessen the swelling. John shivered a little, as he felt Sherlock drawing further on the Fade, knowing his magic immunity meant Sherlock would have to use more power than would be needed for an ordinary person.

Then came the rejuvenating energy. Sherlock's face showed no strain, only intense concentration as his long fingers ghosted over the wound, sparks of magic carefully knitting the flesh together, the sensation not unlike the pattering of soft rain. The blisters slowly shrank and then disappeared, smoothing the skin. John was mesmerized by the way those fingers played over his flesh, showing the same delicacy and finesse with which Sherlock had cradled his beloved _vielle_. He had been treated by the healers many times over the course of his service; he'd always held a certain fondness for Wynne in particular, whose bedside manner tended to be much less clinical than the others'. Not even she, though, had ever displayed such – _elegance_ in her treatments. Nor had he ever been so aware of the feeling of a mage's powers singing in his veins, the soft kisses of tiny bolts of energy, the gentle rending of the Fade releasing some of its mystical energies for just a few moments, the invisible and imperceptible force seeming to gently guide him closer to –

“There,” Sherlock announced, startling John. He abruptly took both hands away, leaving John to look at his handiwork. John lifted his formerly injured forearm. Apart from a slight discoloration of the skin, which would likely vanish within a couple weeks, there was no trace of the burn remaining, and no lingering pain. He bent and flexed his arm, amazed. The only vestige of the wound was the memory of Sherlock's fingers brushing his skin, something he planned to hold on to for a long time.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“You're welcome.” Satisfied, Sherlock returned to his seat. John slowly sat down across from him and reached for the waiting cup of tea.

He touched his forearm again, feeling warmth sweep in as his blood flow returned to normal. Another heat was beginning to pervade his senses, seeming to migrate from his arm through his body, coming to rest between his legs, curled up and sighing with contentment.

Looking up at the man responsible, he felt his heart thud, seeming loud as thunder – and for the rest of the evening, all he could think about was how he could get Sherlock's hands on him again.

 

_**4\. A room within a room** _

_**A door behind a door** _

_**Touch, where do you lead?** _

_**I need something more** _

_**Tell me what you see** _

_**I need something more** _

“You're sure it's here?”

There was a series of quiet _thunks_ as books were quickly pulled from shelves, glanced at, then pushed back into place.

“There is nowhere else it can be.” More soft _thunks_.

“I notice you left yourself out of that statement.” John coughed and waved away some of the rising dust.

“John, I am not the one questioning my accuracy. Now, pondering the accuracy of the Library Index would be a far worthier use of your remaining ounce of mental capacity.”

“Thanks, I'll take that under advisement. Who told the librarians that indexing all the books in _bigger_ books would be the most efficient way to locate them, anyway? The print's so tiny the dots on the 'i's are pinpricks! _You_ could come up with a better cataloging system.”

“Indeed, I have. Consider a set of cards in boxes, organized in one location by subject, title, and author, each card printed with the information of the book in question.”

“Cards in boxes. That's not bad, actually. What won't you think of next?”

“Any subject that does not pertain to the effects of elfroot in catalyzing restorative draughts and its addictive qualities, once we locate this text.”

“Sherlock, it doesn't matter how powerful they are, I still don't think you can substitute restorative draughts for actual sleep. What's next, are you going to try shocking yourself with little jolts of lightning to stay awake?” At this last remark, John hastily shut his mouth, afraid Sherlock might take him at his word.

Fortunately, the mage's attention did not appear diverted from his search. “Considered. Too much concentration involved. There is far less thought and effort expended when uncorking a flask and drinking the contents than there is in casting a spell, even a small one. Let us try the next area.”

John let out a quiet sigh of relief as he followed Sherlock to the neighboring set of shelves. Nothing more was spoken for several minutes as the two quietly and efficiently continued their search. John had finished two shelves and was partway through a third when –

“It must be up here.”

John nearly jumped at the sound of the familiar voice over his head; after glancing up, he was thankful he hadn't, otherwise he would have clocked Sherlock in the jaw. He was suddenly, startlingly aware of the other man's robes, soft and thick as a blanket, pressing up against his back. He could almost feel the tingle of the lyrium weavings down his spine.

Sherlock's own warmth permeated the cloth, especially palpable through the fine lawn of John's shirt. His movements slowed as he absorbed the heat, felt it move against him, seeming to gradually flow down his spine to pool between his legs.

He rested a hand on the shelf to steady himself as Sherlock's long arms continued to move vigorously above him, seemingly oblivious to his...discomfort? No, he didn't dislike this feeling, not at all. No, it was rather pleasant, in fact. Just...not right, not now. He controlled his breathing, channeling every ounce of his Chantry-trained discipline.

He lifted his head, felt cold brass fastenings surrounded by warm cloth press into his neck. The heat was still moving downwards, but it was starting higher now, somewhere around the pulse points in his neck, resonating with each heartbeat. If he leaned back just a bit more, perhaps he could hear Sherlock's heart.

Sherlock was beginning to slow down now, his movements less harried, but only John noticed the subtle, yet odd change in his breathing; instead of quieting along with Sherlock's activity, it was picking up ever so slightly, his chest heaving against John's back, the cloth like a warm towel rubbing against his neck, and John's breathing soon matched his in tempo, his pulse rising as well, and the heat was spreading, rolling through him in waves, each stronger than the last, building up to a perfect crescendo, cresting towards the peak of pleasure –

“I've found it!” Sherlock's voice broke through John's daze like a light in a fog.

“You have?” John said vaguely, feeling his breathing return to normal, but his pulse showing no signs of slowing. “That's – that's good.”

Before Sherlock could step away, John quickly turned around and looked up at him. It was like the night they had been unexpectedly interrupted and forced to hide in a corner, only now John was in no mood to ignore the feeling of Sherlock's body against his. Their height difference was not nearly so noticeable while they were pressed together like this. Ice-blue eyes locked onto hazel, and there was no sound between them but breathing. Sherlock's expression was unreadable, but his eyes...oh, his eyes. Their pale blue depths swallowed John as easily as he did lyrium.

It would be so simple. All John had to do was reach up, grasp his head or shoulders, and close the space between them. Just one smooth movement. Or, Sherlock could –

“Shall we get started, then?”

One of them blinked at that, and John wasn't sure if it was him. With contact broken, the moment was lost. “Sure,” he replied, unsteadily, as the once-intense warmth slowly receded and tapered off into a comfortable state. He gave a weak smile he was sure did not reach his eyes, and felt a sudden chill through his thin shirt. “I'll go get the elfroot.”

 

_**5\. Hold on** _

_**If love is the answer you're home** _

_**Hold on** _

_**If love is the answer you're home** _

_**Hold on** _

_**If love is the answer you're home** _

“Sherlock, I need a small favor. Could you do something for me?”

“I could.” Sherlock paused in his writing to give John a knowing look. “Whether I _will_ is another matter entirely.”

John gave a halfhearted chuckle. At any other time he would have found that amusing, but not now. “Shut up, I know you will.” He forced his tone to sound light so Sherlock wouldn't think he was angry. “It's hardly anything, really. I need you to do some magic – right here, now.”

“Oh?” Sherlock set his pen down and folded his hands. “And what would you have me do? Shall I extract a rabbit from your helmet?”

John forgot his anxiety in a moment of genuine bafflement. “ _What?_ No. Can you even do that? Why on earth would anyone...? Never mind. Um...form a ball of light. Make it as big as you want.”

“Just a moment.” Sherlock's tone was curious now, an unusual occurrence; John was both relieved and surprised that he didn't question further, though knowing Sherlock, he had probably already deduced John's motive. Sherlock slowly drew his hands apart, as if pulling back curtains; as his fingers parted, a small, glowing orb could be seen hovering between them. He seemed to stretch the orb with his fingers as he pulled them further apart, until a plate-sized, flickering globe of pure light was hovering in his hands.

John lifted his hand and made a sweeping motion, in a gesture as familiar and automatic as a handshake. In an instant, the ball vanished, and Sherlock started at the slight shock of his magic being cut off. John paled slightly.

“Um, all right. Try casting Sleep.”

“More effective than warm milk,” Sherlock remarked as he closed his eyes in concentration.

John felt his own eyelids dropping as energy was slowly siphoned from his mind, passed into a restful state – but it was mere seconds before his finely honed concentration won out. His eyes popped open, the cloud disappeared, and Sherlock's pull on the Fade snapped like stretched rubber. Sherlock was wincing slightly, as if there had been recoil. John swallowed.

“One more time. Inscribe a Glyph of Repulsion.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John smiled in a much-needed moment of levity. “Take advantage of it while you can. It'll take more than that to keep me away from you.” His last remark was made with more humor than he actually felt.

Sherlock smirked, then rose, grabbed his staff, and walked to another corner of the room, putting some distance between the two of them. He raised his staff, concentrated for a few moments, then aimed it at the ground. In seconds the glyph shimmered into existence. John saw the faint glow of the glyph's lines and patterns and felt the pull of mana being tapped into, but otherwise the glyph was practically invisible on the white stone floor.

He took a deep breath, then approached the glyph, cautiously at first, then in brisker movements. The moment he set foot inside, he immediately felt the push, an invisible force shoving him back. Slowly, little by little, his resistance was weakening, the force seeming to feed on the energy he was expending, growing stronger with each passing second. He was nearly off his feet by now, his heels desperately digging for a foothold in the solid, smooth floor. Instinctively, he fought back, focusing on lowering his foot inch by inch to the ground. If he could just stay upright...

Finally, boot met stone, hands flew out, and with a final burst of stamina and cleansing energy, the glyph vanished.

John's hands flew to his mouth, covering a gasp. He fell back against a nearby bookshelf. “No. No, that's not possible...”

Sherlock looked up, not showing a hint of fatigue from having his mana abruptly cut off and slightly depleted three times within as many minutes. The templar looked as pale as the floor. “John...? Do you mean –?”

“When you told me my dependence was psychosomatic, I decided to conduct my own experiment. I used to drink one potion per day, though the recommendation is three. Since then, I've only had one lyrium potion per week – it would have been two, but it seemed just one was enough to stave off withdrawal symptoms, probably because I've been taking them for so long. And it was always either the least or moderately potent kind.” He knew the exact number, had counted all of the flasks stashed under his bed time and again, still never quite able to believe either the length of time since their first meeting or how few potions he'd consumed since then.

John walked numbly to his chair and dropped into it. “If only I had questioned it sooner. According to all the studies and literature I've read...by now I should barely have been able to do any of what I just did. And yet it took no more effort than normal...”

His head fell into his hands. “Oh, Maker...” Sherlock began to cross the room towards him, his staff tapping lightly on the floor as he walked. He was just steps away from John when the templar lifted his head, uttering an oath that echoed off the stone walls.

“Damn them to the Void!”

He exhaled a deep breath, which came out more like a sob. Sherlock was next to him now, though John was talking more to himself than the other man.

“They _know_ , they must know...or they don't, which is worse, because nothing suggests they're looking into it, meaning they don't care to find out. It's not enough for them to chain us here spiritually and mentally, they have to do it physically, too!”

“You are no more free than we are,” Sherlock said quietly, but John didn't seem to hear. Sherlock saw the tears lingering on John's eyelashes that would not give the relief of falling.

“I've attended Chantry services every week practically since I was born. One of my very first memories is of Revered Mother Aline smiling down at me. I've given my life to them, of my own choosing...and _this_ is how they repay me?” His voice rose slightly. “And what about Sers Branstone, Clark, and Devereaux? Good, faithful men, and a woman, all of them. They were nothing but _shells_ at the end, drowning in their addictions, lost to the lyrium. And those are just the ones I _knew_.”

He buried his face in his hands, muffling his words. “How – how can they do this?”

Sherlock just watched, silently and without emotion, for the next few minutes. Ordinarily he would have just sat back down and let John cry, rant, do whatever he wanted to in peace while Sherlock actually accomplished something. But this was _John_. For some reason, it didn't feel right to simply let him suffer in silence. The system that had imprisoned him for something he had no control over had hurt John – _hurt John –_ for willingly placing his fate in their hands, and that could not be forgotten, much less forgiven.

That wasn't his concern at the moment. His only concern was a despondent templar who appeared to be on the verge of a breakdown.

“John,” he said finally, running through all the different things he could think of to say, attempting to sort them between “not good”, “possibly a mistake”, and “marginally better”, before settling on one. “Would your mood be improved if you tried to smite me?”

John gave a small chuckle. “Thanks, but somehow I don't think using the powers I shouldn't have is going to make me feel any better about having them.”

Sherlock smiled a little in response. John now looked slightly less upset. Perhaps he needed something more tangible than just words to feel better.

Slowly, tentatively, Sherlock laid a hand on John's left shoulder. When John made no move to push him away, they both seemed to relax a little. Sherlock frowned as he felt something beneath the thin cloth of John's shirt. “What's this?”

“Oh, that?” John looked up, seeming relieved at the change in subject. “I got that in my last year with the city guard. We were called to break up a disturbance in a back alley. It turned out to be a territory war between two rival criminal gangs. Little did we know just how well-prepared they actually were.”

Sherlock started to move the cloth aside; John tensed slightly, but did not stop him. He ran his fingers over the wound, and John involuntarily shuddered at the feel of the cool, smooth tips gliding over his skin.

“The archer was behind you,” he murmured. “Just as the arrow fired, you turned at the last second, ruining an otherwise lethal shot. The resulting injury was not exactly superficial, but nor was it serious enough to cause permanent incapacitation.”

“Yes,” John replied quietly. “Just chance, that was all. I got lucky. Lestrade noticed the archer taking aim and called my name. I found out that after I was hit, he took the archer down with one backstab. While some of my comrades were also injured, thankfully none was more serious than mine. I had to take a few weeks off to recover – the healer said if I didn't, that arm would never be able to lift a sword or shield again. While I was resting, I spent a lot of time thinking about whether I really wanted to continue with the guard. I still wanted to do something in the military, but I wasn't sure about enlisting, and I didn't want to be some noble's bodyguard. Then one morning at the Chantry, it came to me. I could be a templar. Their duty was just as important, and required plenty of skill, but presented less danger – a different sort, at least – than being on the front line. So I believed. I resigned from the guard a week later. One month after that, I began training in the Chantry.”

He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder just how lucky I actually was.”

There was a period of silence. Sherlock's hand gripped John's shoulder lightly. After a moment, John reached up, laid his hand on Sherlock's, and squeezed back.

And in that moment, despite his anger and grief towards those who had used his faith against him, he had never felt closer to the Maker.

 

_**+1 Touch, sweet touch** _

_**You've given me too much to feel** _

_**Sweet touch** _

_**You've almost convinced me I'm real** _

_**I need something more** _

_**I need something...more** _

It wasn't Haste or Swift Salve that sped up John's pace that night.

_I'll tell him first thing. Not even a hello, just come right out and say it. Maybe I won't even say it, maybe I should just take his hands, kiss him like I should have done and –_

He froze in the doorway. Sherlock was seated as usual, but instead of idly reading or thinking as normal, he was furiously scrawling on a piece of parchment. He seemed angry and frustrated, his quill nearly tearing the paper in his intensity.

“Sherlock? Is everything all right?” He approached the table cautiously.

Sherlock glanced up for a moment. “Oh, hello John. No, everything is _not_ all right.”

“Oh...I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it's nothing to do with you. I just came out of a – rather exhausting debate.”

“Oh? What was it about?”

“Two other mages and myself were discussing the Circle fraternities. The Aequitarians have hinted at a possible alliance with the Libertarians, discarding their current one with the Loyalists. One believed this was a good short-term strategy for the Aequitarians to gain a better foothold with the fastest-growing of the fraternities – as long as the alliance was conditional – while the other believed any kind of alliance, full or otherwise, would be nothing short of betrayal to the Loyalists.”

“And what was your opinion?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes; with the frequency of that gesture, John sometimes wondered how they hadn't frozen in that position. “My view was that the entire debate was utterly pointless. The templars will still be here, hierarchy or no. However we may try to convince ourselves otherwise, they hold the keys to our locks. Why even keep order amongst ourselves when they are the true governing body? You're one of them – don't you agree?”

The fire that had been burning in John's heart was dying now, flames hissing into vapor with each icy word that fell from Sherlock's lips.

_You're one of them_.

He was a templar, and Sherlock was a mage, and that was all Sherlock would ever see the two of them as. Against everything they thought they knew, they could be friends, but nothing more. A prisoner couldn't love his guard, at least not the way John wanted Sherlock to love him – the way Sherlock deserved to love someone, if he were even capable of the emotion. John had been a diversion, an experiment perhaps – that was all.

“John? What do you think?” Sherlock finally looked up from his paper, quill poised.

John had recovered enough to quickly mask his growing anguish – not that Sherlock would have noticed. “Uh, yes, you're right. We're in charge; it's our job to look after you, no matter your pecking order.”

“Good, we agree.” Sherlock scribbled a few more notes before setting his quill aside. “And how are you?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

Sherlock's gaze turned thoughtful, puzzled. _Is he seeing_ me _?_ John wondered, _or just something he can observe, poke, prod at?_ “John, your skin is unnaturally pale, your breathing has quickened, and there's a line of perspiration on your brow. You don't look fine.”

“Oh, I don't?” John forced himself to breathe deeply, stepping back as he did so, putting some much-needed distance between the two of them. “I – yes, you're right.” _You're always right, damn you_. “I don't feel very well right now, actually – I think I ate something that didn't agree with me.”

“All right.” Apart from a slight nod of satisfaction, Sherlock appeared unaffected by this turn of events – _just like he always is_ , John thought bitterly _, nothing matters to him aside from his damned experiments, least of all me._ “I have some work to finish. Would you like a potion or –?”

“No. No, I don't want anything from you,” John snapped, more harshly than he'd intended. Thankfully, Sherlock's only reaction was a slightly raised eyebrow. “Do your work. I'm – I'm just going to go to bed now.”

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something, but the moment passed. “Very well. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” In parallel to his arrival, John couldn't leave fast enough.

He was in bed within twenty minutes, but unlike every other night he saw Sherlock, sleep didn't come for a long time.

He couldn't bring himself to think they should never have become friends. Their friendship – hell, just their meeting – had changed him in ways he'd always be thankful for. But how could he have let himself fall for the man, to want more than Sherlock could ever give him?

_Because he's more than I ever thought he'd be_.

Sherlock had once said he was only human.

_And that_ , John thought before finally drifting off to sleep, _shows he isn't always right about everything._

**Author's Note:**

>  _Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. :) Yeah...just a heads-up, we are on the Angst Express from here on out. And we've got a long journey ahead. Damn these two for suffering so prettily (in my friend's words), and Thedas for making it so easy..._  
>  _Incidentally, the_ vielle _is an actual medieval-period bowed stringed instrument, precursor to the violin._ Vielle _is its French, and most common, name. Some modern musicians still use reproductions to play pre-Baroque music. (Here, Sherlock started playing at the same age I started the violin, though I stopped when I graduated high school at 17.)_  
>  _I had considered having John's injury in #3 not be caused by an apprentice – say, spilling boiling water on himself (I've been there *winces*) – but decided to stick with what you see here. The Tower's not a nice place._  
>  _Special thanks to Thomas Bangalter, Chris Caswell, Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Paul Williams for such an awesome song – and album!_ Random Access Memories _will definitely go down as one of my all-time favorites._  
>  _And as always, thank you to everyone who's cared to read this far, slash welcome to any newcomers, with special thanks to those who've been kind enough to kudos/comment/bookmark/subscribe. Extra thanks to OtakuElf, who was there from the beginning, and as a bonus has been lovely to beta for. (Go check out_ Biological Clock _for a great new take on Parentlock!) This series would never have gotten past the first installment without such a nice reception. Even if you lurk, you're still greatly appreciated – thank you for taking even a little time to read._  
> 


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